


It Doesn’t Need to be Perfect

by BeaArthurPendragon



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Forgiveness, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Music, Romance, Sickfic, Surprise Gifts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 05:17:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17155946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeaArthurPendragon/pseuds/BeaArthurPendragon
Summary: Yep. He was happy.God, this was weird.(Or: About a year and a half after the end of DDS3, Karen and the Defenders team up to keep Matt busy while Foggy sets up Matt's surprise Christmas gift. Meanwhile, Matt's got a surprise of his own up his sleeve.)





	It Doesn’t Need to be Perfect

**Author's Note:**

  * For [poisonivory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisonivory/gifts).



> (I just really wanted to write some delicious, tooth-rotting fluff.)
> 
> Also fills my Daredevil Bingo square: Redemption

_Hate to do this but I gotta bail tonight. Burst pipe at Theo’s. Said I’d wait for the super so he could finish Xmas orders at the store. Tell the superfriends I said hi._

Matt sighed. He knew it wasn’t true because the only time Foggy texted him was when he didn’t want Matt’s super-hearing to catch the lie in his voice over the phone. But it was Christmas Eve—their first Christmas Eve together, by the way—and Matt Murdock was not amused.

He dialed Foggy’s number, and wasn’t entirely surprised when it went to voicemail.

“This get-together was _your_ idea, Franklin,” Matt said irritably. “And we promised no presents this year, so whatever you got, send it back.”

Thirty seconds later, another text arrived: _Not a chance. And stay away until 10pm._

Matt sighed again, levered up from his desk chair, and walked out of his office to Karen’s desk. “What’s Foggy up to?”

“I’m sure I have no idea,” Karen said, the smile clear as a bell in her voice.

“Traitor,” Matt grumbled. “Get your coat. We’re closing early today.”

“Do I get to know where we’re going?”

“The unhappiest place in the world on Christmas Eve,” Matt said. “Macy’s.”

* * *

It was hard to believe it had been almost a year since they’d moved out of the spare room behind Theo’s shop. Once Elektra’s will had finally gone through probate, he’d found himself with, well, more zeroes in his bank account than he’d ever imagined. He’d funneled it all into the business, including taking out a ridiculously optimistic five-year lease on the top floor of a recently renovated building with roof access. (“I thought we agreed to keep church and state separate, Matt.” “It’s just in case, Fog.”)

But Foggy had conceded swiftly, because he was still taking on a lot of contract work for Jeri Hogarth, and he was a lot likelier to keep those clients if they didn’t have to walk through a butcher shop first.

Six days later, Foggy’s appendix had suddenly and dramatically burst on the courthouse stairs, necessitating an ambulance ride and emergency surgery that shook Matt far more deeply than Foggy’s previous injuries in the line of duty. Those had scared him too, but they had been perpetrated by bad guys who could be stopped, who could be caught and brought to justice. But a ruptured appendix? No mask, no billy club, no super-senses could protect the people he loved from that.

Marci was on a plane to Los Angeles for a deposition and couldn’t be reached, so it had been Matt who had sat beside him in the recovery room until he woke up. He often wondered how different his life would be if he’d taken Karen up on her offer to spell him for a while.

“Hey, buddy,” Foggy had mumbled as he came to.

“Hey, buddy,” Matt had said, squeezing his arm. “You scared the shit out of me for a minute, there.”

“Now you how I feel every time you get hurt.”

“I’m sorry, Fog.”

“I love you, you know that?”

“’Course I do, buddy. I love you too.”

“No, I mean I’m very sexually attracted to you, Matty.”

Matt had burst out laughing.

“No, really, you’re an extremely handsome man, you know that? Maybe you don’t know that. But you are.”

“Okay, Fog. That’s enough.”

“And, like, I’ve had this crush on you since, like, sophomore year, or maybe it was junior year—I can’t remember. It’s not important. My point is that—why are you _laughing_ , Matthew?”

“You’re high as a kite right now and it’s hilarious.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m lying,” Foggy said petulantly. “I’m not, you know.”

And Matt had known he wasn’t. Had known for a long time that whatever Foggy and Marci had was comfortable and comforting—but it wasn’t passionate, and it definitely wasn’t love. It had bothered Matt because he didn’t like the idea of his best friend settling for less, but it had taken Foggy’s confession to force him to realize why: He was jealous. He wanted to keep Foggy all to himself, and he always had.

Nothing is quite that simple and admissions under the influence of propofol were hardly conclusive, but by the end of January, Marci had returned the ring and Foggy had moved in with his brother, and Matt was struggling to adapt to the possibility that his future might actually turn out to include the thing that scared him most: Happiness.

By the end of March they were dating and by the end of April Foggy was spending most weekends at Matt’s and by the end of May he had moved in. And now, come December 24?

Yep. He was happy.  

God, this was weird.

* * *

After fighting their way through the Christmas Eve mosh pit at Macy’s, Matt and Karen were in more dire need of a drink than they’d ever been in their lives. (“I thought you said you guys weren’t doing presents this year.” “Well, he’s up to something. I can’t show up emptyhanded.” “Okay, but _this_?” “It's been on my to-do list for a while, anyway. Why not?”)

Jessica and Luke were already at Josie’s by the time they got there, Danny and Misty arrived not long after, and Claire and Colleen straggled in an hour later, flushed from more than just the cold. They hadn’t publicized their relationship yet, but it wasn’t just Matt they couldn’t fool. It was pretty adorable.

“I will pay the tab of whoever will tell me what Foggy is doing right now,” Matt offered.

“No, you won’t, because I’m paying everyone’s tab, period,” Danny said. “Sorry, man. Billionaire’s privilege.”

“Hey, I _died_ for you, remember?”

“Eh, you got better,” Luke said.

“Sure you want to compare sacrifices, Murdock?” Misty asked, punching him lightly—but not that lightly—with her bionic arm.

“C’mon, we went to therapy about that,” Matt complained. “I thought we were good.”

“We’re good,” Misty said, smiling, but with just enough warning in her voice to remind him never to try _that_ joke around her again.

Chastened, Matt flushed red and swirled the ice in his drink.

“Look, Matt, nobody knows the big secret, okay?” Jessica said, downing her fourth whiskey. “All I know is that I have strict instructions to physically restrain you if you try to leave before 10.”

"And I'm not going to stitch you up if it comes to that," Claire added. "Because it'll be your own damn fault."

“Fine, I’ll drop it,” he laughed, holding his hands up in surrender.

He sat back in his corner of the booth after that and mostly just listened to the conversation and laughter swirl around him. These voices were so precious to him, he thought.  None of them had been particularly happy that they hadn’t learned of his survival until Daredevil was back in the news, and it had taken a long time and a lot of work to restore the fragile trust they’d barely begun to establish before Midland Circle tore them apart. The fact that they’d been able to, that they’d even been able to work together again, felt like a small miracle.

He wished Foggy was here. It was Foggy who had orchestrated Matt’s reunion with Jess, who had cajoled and plead and bargained and bribed her with scotch until she agreed to at least meet Matt on a rooftop to hear him out. (“You don’t have to forgive him and you don’t ever have to speak to him again. All he’s asking is that you listen.” “Little late for that, Nelson.” “I know. He knows. Do it anyway. Please.”)

In fact, it had been Foggy who had orchestrated all of his reunions, period. He was the one who had driven him to Pop’s to talk to Luke, and he was the one who convinced Claire to meet him for coffee after her shift at the free clinic where she’d landed after Metro General, and he was the one who dropped him off at the Harlem precinct at the end of Misty’s shift. (“I was a coward not to come sooner, Misty. I’m sorry.” “Yeah, you were.” “I never meant for anything like this—” “Did I _ask_ for your pity, Murdock?”)

Foggy had been the one who ended up buying a dozen kumquats, three heads of bok choy, a plastic bag full of live prawns, and a durian from the Chinese grocer downstairs from Colleen’s dojo while Matt fumbled his way toward forgiveness upstairs. (“I hope Danny can forgive you, because I’m not sure I can. What you asked him to do almost destroyed him.” “I know.”)

And it had been Foggy who managed to persuade Danny to come to Matt’s apartment one Saturday morning. He had politely listened to Matt say his piece, and then he’d left without saying a word. But then a week later, a CD had arrived in the mail with a note printed in braille: _Music to punch to. If you ever need a sparring partner, call. -DR_.

He didn’t deserve any of it.

And yet Foggy thought he did.

He didn’t deserve that, either.

* * *

Finally, 10 o’clock came, and they made their goodbyes. Snow had begun to fall, and though it was not far, Karen walked him home.

“I’d ask you if you want to come up for a nightcap, but I’m guessing Foggy wants me all to himself.”

“You’d guess right,” Karen said lightly, wrapping her arm around his and leaning against his shoulder. “I’ve got plans, anyway.”

Matt didn’t ask. He knew it was Frank, knew there was something between them, though not exactly what. Part of him hated it, and part of him loved seeing Karen’s new happiness, and so he’d decided to do something he’d never done before: Live with the contradiction. They both knew he would send Frank back to jail if he ever caught him in Hell’s Kitchen, but he didn’t go looking for him, either. Frank Castle deserved a chance at redemption, too. Maybe Karen was the one to help him find it.

“This is my stop,” Matt said when his cane struck his front stoop.

“Merry Christmas, Matt,” Karen said, patting his chest. “I expect a full report in the morning.”

Matt smiled and kissed her on the cheek. “Merry Christmas, Karen.”

* * *

Foggy was waiting outside their door when he came up the stairs.

“Hi babe,” he said, kissing Matt. “Have fun?”

“Your secret is safe,” Matt said. “Despite plying them with alcohol and deploying my most charming interrogation skills, none of them cracked.”

Foggy laughed, and Matt’s heart double-flipped at the sound. He wanted to listen to this laugh for the rest of his life.

“So what’s with the welcoming committee?”

“Normally this would require a blindfold,” Foggy said. “But that’s not going to work, so I figured disrupting your echolocation was the next best thing.” Foggy reached up and fitted a pair of noise-canceling headphones over Matt’s head. “You okay with this?”

“I trust you, Fog,” Matt said, although when Foggy turned on the music—Handel’s _Messiah_ , to be precise—he found himself more disoriented than he expected. He reached out clumsily and Foggy caught his hand and gently positioned it on his arm and walked him inside. He helped Matt hang up his cane and take off his coat and set down his glasses, then guided him down the front hall and into the main room. He took a sniff to see if he could detect anything about his surprise, but Foggy had insisted on a real tree bought off the street, which meant his nose was mostly blinded by the scent of spruce.

_Forever! And ever! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!_

Finally they reached the far wall of the apartment—between the first and second windows, judging by the draft and the fact that they had not taken enough steps to get them all the way across to the third. There was something in front of him, an indistinct mass that changed the currents of the draft sifting in through the old windows, but he couldn’t tell more than that. Foggy guided his hand forward to touch…

Piano keys.

“Foggy,” he said, tearing off the headphones and pressing a key. A perfect D-flat rang through the apartment. It had already been tuned. “This is too much.”

“It is nothing of the sort,” Foggy said, threading an arm around Matt’s back and kissing his cheek. “You’ve wanted one for as long as I’ve known you, and I’ve wanted to be able to give it to you for almost as long. So suck it up, Murdock, you’ve got a piano now.”

Matt leaned against him and made a largely futile attempt to stay ahead of the tears welling in his eyes.

“Matt, you allow yourself so little joy in this world,” Foggy said softly, squeezing him tight. “I want you to have this, okay? _I_ want this.”

“Okay,” Matt said hoarsely.

“So?” Foggy said, kissing his ear. “Don’t keep me waiting, babe. Play something, already!”

Matt gave a teary laugh and sat at the bench, quickly skimming the keyboard with his fingertips to find middle C. “What do you want to hear?”

“A Christmas carol would be appropriate.”

“You like Irving Berlin, right?” Matt asked, giving the opening bars of _Silver Bells_ a test run and wincing as he stumbled over a simple phrase.

“Oh well,” Matt said, taking his hands off the keys. “Guess I’ll need to practice a little first.”

“No, keep going,” Foggy said. “It doesn’t have to be perfect. Please?”

He took a skeptical breath and placed his hands back on the keys. “Okay, but don’t blame me if your ears bleed.”

He stumbled and stumbled again, but this time he didn’t stop, and eventually his muscle memory began to return and he could not stop smiling as his hands seem to dance of their own volition, however imperfectly, across the keyboard. Oh, had he _missed_ this.

Foggy sat next to him on the bench and began to sing along softly in a sweet, unschooled tenor, a little off-key but Matt hardly cared. Foggy had never been self-conscious about his voice, the same way he had never been self-conscious about his terrible dancing. He simply took pleasure in it, and that was enough for him. In many ways, Matt thought, Foggy was much, much braver than he.

“Good job, Bing,” Matt said, bumping his shoulder against Foggy’s and grinning broadly. “What next?”

“Play _Ave Maria_ ,” Foggy said.

“You don’t like church music.”

“But you do,” Foggy said, turning towards him on the bench. “I want you play something you love.”

Matt blushed a little. “You going to sing along to this, too?”

“My Latin's a little rusty,” Foggy said. “Besides, I just want to listen to you.”

Matt blushed even more deeply, the heat on his face feeling uncomfortably like a spotlight. But he repositioned his hands and located the opening notes, and began to play. This was probably the song he knew by heart best; he’d played it so often at church for weddings and holidays, and he’d always been partial to Schubert.

There was a lovely purity to the song that had always appealed to him; it was unapologetically pretty, even sentimental, but like Foggy’s singing, completely un-self-conscious about it. It was innocent, he thought, completely and unironically beautiful, and he could not believe that this sound was coming from _him_. His hands were so accustomed to dealing out pain; it was frankly astonishing to remember that they were capable of anything else.

And beside him, Foggy was _sobbing_.

“Oh Foggy,” Matt laughed, gathering him in his arms and kissing his temple. “That bad, huh?”

“No,” Foggy whispered, burying his head into the curve of Matt’s neck. “It was wonderful.”

Matt squeezed him tight. “Okay, buddy. What’s really going on?”

“Do you know how much I love seeing you smile, Matt? When you first came back from Midland Circle, you were in such a dark place, I never thought you’d be happy again. And seeing you right now, it's just—just so—I don't now. It's _everything_ , Matt.”

“Hey,” Matt said, kissing him again and then framing his face in his hands. “Hey. Look at me. Look at me, Fog.”

Foggy nodded against Matt’s hands, and Matt smiled and pressed his forehead against Foggy’s.

“Since we’re talking about happiness, would you by any chance want to make me the happiest man on Earth?”

Foggy rocked back on the bench. “Wait, what?”

Matt shifted his weight and patted himself down, then frowned and stood up. “Stay there,” he said, loping back over to the coat rack and digging through the pockets of his parka. “Sorry,” he said, hurrying back with the small, slightly crushed Macy’s box in his hand. “Let’s start over.”

Foggy was already standing by the time he returned. “No, let’s just roll with it.”

“I had it all planned out—”

“Matt,” Foggy said, pulling Matt closer by his tie and kissing him deeply. “It doesn’t need to be perfect. My answer is yes.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know about y'all, but I'm in a sugar coma now. These boys! Thank you, poisonivory, for these delicious prompts!


End file.
